I was at the neighborhood market today and everyone who worked there wanted to talk to me about the World Cup. Folks at the market know that I am from the US, so this is a natural topic of conversation. The US tied their hardest match in an otherwise easy (relatively of course) group. And since the US historically has been so pathetic in football, it is the one sphere in which I sometimes root for the imperium.
I will be leaving for the US next week and my only regret is not being able to be in a football-mad country for the rest of the tournament. Even if, as in the case of Egypt, they themselves did not qualify. I guess to be in a country that not only cared, but was also playing would be ideal.
Part of this is self-interest because, like having a baby, football is ready-made conversation piece. It provides endless opportunities to practice my Arabic. The city is the water cooler, and everyone wants to talk about whatever matches were played the day before.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The supermarket and the pharmacy
I ran some errands last night. I went to the supermarket for lettuce and bread. Two heads of romaine and a baguette for 5.60 Egyptian Pounds (exactly one dollar). Next stop: the pharmacy. I got some pain syrup medication for R and Vitamin D drops. The bill was 7.25 EGP. I was home in 10 or 15 minutes, and my pockets were slightly more than $2 US lighter.
Medicine is inexpensive because it is subsidized by the government. Bread is actually also subsidized by the government. But not baguettes. (I could have gotten much more bread for a lot less money had I wanted.)
Medicine is inexpensive because it is subsidized by the government. Bread is actually also subsidized by the government. But not baguettes. (I could have gotten much more bread for a lot less money had I wanted.)
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The U in the NY Times
I am not sure if folks saw this article about the university that appeared in the New York Times last month. It is the kind of thing I would have posted on the blog back when it was published if I were keeping current with the blog. (Slacker that I am, I did post it on fb.)
Anyway...I have a lot of personal thoughts. I agree with the argument that the liberal arts are a good thing, and the university is providing a valuable service by introducing this kind of education in a place where it is unfamiliar. And I agree with the characterization of the students as generally open-minded and willing to be challenged in new ways by this style of education.
The description of it makes the university sound like a missionary institution, which is where I start to get uncomfortable. Partly because, as some of you know, I spend a lot of time researching missionaries. Partly, perhaps, because the university was founded, as the article acknowledges, by actual missionaries.
But I think my primary point of dissatisfaction with the article is its implication that Egyptian students are not bringing anything to the table other than bad habits. This, I believe, is patently false. I teach a number of M.A. students who did their undergraduate degrees at national universities, including the one named in the article, and feel that they arrive with a rich range of literacies and, as a group, adapt quite well to work in our department.
Specifically, our Egyptian students at all levels come trained in a tradition of multilingualism, which is foreign in the US. Their multilingualism includes multiple Arabics and English, and oftentimes French and German. As a teacher of literature from the US, I find these skills, which are part of my students’ educational background, to be valuable and unique. This might seem kind of obvious, but I don't think we can take it for granted.
Anyway...I have a lot of personal thoughts. I agree with the argument that the liberal arts are a good thing, and the university is providing a valuable service by introducing this kind of education in a place where it is unfamiliar. And I agree with the characterization of the students as generally open-minded and willing to be challenged in new ways by this style of education.
The description of it makes the university sound like a missionary institution, which is where I start to get uncomfortable. Partly because, as some of you know, I spend a lot of time researching missionaries. Partly, perhaps, because the university was founded, as the article acknowledges, by actual missionaries.
But I think my primary point of dissatisfaction with the article is its implication that Egyptian students are not bringing anything to the table other than bad habits. This, I believe, is patently false. I teach a number of M.A. students who did their undergraduate degrees at national universities, including the one named in the article, and feel that they arrive with a rich range of literacies and, as a group, adapt quite well to work in our department.
Specifically, our Egyptian students at all levels come trained in a tradition of multilingualism, which is foreign in the US. Their multilingualism includes multiple Arabics and English, and oftentimes French and German. As a teacher of literature from the US, I find these skills, which are part of my students’ educational background, to be valuable and unique. This might seem kind of obvious, but I don't think we can take it for granted.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Citizenship
When I tell people that R was born in Egypt, they ask, “So does that make her an Egyptian (or dual) citizen?” The short answer is no. Citizenship in Egypt is determined by the nationality of the father; therefore, I would have to be an Egyptian citizen for her to claim Egyptian citizenship.
In the United States, however, citizenship can be either patrilineal or matrilineal for a child born abroad to a citizen parent, as is our case. For R, it was a relatively straightforward process since both of her parents are US-born citizens and there are no complicating factors like unmarried parents, one non-citizen parent, missing documents, multiple passports, long-term residence abroad, etc.
This was only an issue because hers was the birth of a US citizen abroad. When someone is born in the US, their parents’ citizenship (at least as I understand it) is less an issue because citizenship is determined by their place of birth. I have Egyptian friends and students who are US citizens because they were born, for example, while their parents were doing a medical residency in the US. (And in many of these cases, they have siblings, a few years older or younger, born elsewhere who is not a US citizen.) I don’t know the citizenship laws of many places, but this law is particularly American and is, in many instances, the source of the question I get asked. Usually, though not exclusively, it is Americans who ask about her citizenship. Based on our country’s laws, we may reasonably presume that one’s birthplace always grants citizenship.
While this is clearly not the case, why does the US do it? The answer has its roots, as do many questions of US policy, in slavery. The 14th Amendment to the Constitution of the US granted to citizenship “all persons born or naturalized in the United States,” including former slaves. A law that based citizenship on parentage would have continued to disfranchise African Americans (and instead the courts and legislatures had to find alternative ways to effectively do that). The Constitution was amended in the wake of the Civil War in order to guarantee citizenship to the descendants of slaves in perpetuity. This history makes this law sacred.
It also means that anyone born in the US is guaranteed to be a citizen of some place. This might seem obvious, but it is not. In Egypt, for example, Palestinians who were born here typically can not become Egyptian citizens (and don’t have citizenship or a passport). Imagine a population, all born in the US over the course of several generations, who are not eligible for citizenship.
Actually there were huge exceptions to the 14th amendment. Native Americans were excluded from the 14th amendment based on their tribal citizenship until at least 1924 when the parameters for citizenship were made territorial rather than juridical. And of course, there have been decades of de facto exclusion from many of the rights conferred by citizenship on African Americans, Native Americans, and others.
While there is a lot of debate in the US about immigration, I have not heard much discussion of the important constitutional reasons why the US, given its particular history, grants citizenship in the way that it does. I have been thinking about all of this in connection to the hateful immigration law in Arizona. The expansion of citizenship in the 14th amendment gave the 13th (abolition) meaning and the 15th (franchise) a foundation. I have not heard the Tea Party arguing for the repeal of the 14th amendment yet, but I think people need to recognize that this history of expanding opportunities for citizenship is worthy of celebration, and look for more opportunities to enfranchise all people who reside in the US.
In the United States, however, citizenship can be either patrilineal or matrilineal for a child born abroad to a citizen parent, as is our case. For R, it was a relatively straightforward process since both of her parents are US-born citizens and there are no complicating factors like unmarried parents, one non-citizen parent, missing documents, multiple passports, long-term residence abroad, etc.
This was only an issue because hers was the birth of a US citizen abroad. When someone is born in the US, their parents’ citizenship (at least as I understand it) is less an issue because citizenship is determined by their place of birth. I have Egyptian friends and students who are US citizens because they were born, for example, while their parents were doing a medical residency in the US. (And in many of these cases, they have siblings, a few years older or younger, born elsewhere who is not a US citizen.) I don’t know the citizenship laws of many places, but this law is particularly American and is, in many instances, the source of the question I get asked. Usually, though not exclusively, it is Americans who ask about her citizenship. Based on our country’s laws, we may reasonably presume that one’s birthplace always grants citizenship.
While this is clearly not the case, why does the US do it? The answer has its roots, as do many questions of US policy, in slavery. The 14th Amendment to the Constitution of the US granted to citizenship “all persons born or naturalized in the United States,” including former slaves. A law that based citizenship on parentage would have continued to disfranchise African Americans (and instead the courts and legislatures had to find alternative ways to effectively do that). The Constitution was amended in the wake of the Civil War in order to guarantee citizenship to the descendants of slaves in perpetuity. This history makes this law sacred.
It also means that anyone born in the US is guaranteed to be a citizen of some place. This might seem obvious, but it is not. In Egypt, for example, Palestinians who were born here typically can not become Egyptian citizens (and don’t have citizenship or a passport). Imagine a population, all born in the US over the course of several generations, who are not eligible for citizenship.
Actually there were huge exceptions to the 14th amendment. Native Americans were excluded from the 14th amendment based on their tribal citizenship until at least 1924 when the parameters for citizenship were made territorial rather than juridical. And of course, there have been decades of de facto exclusion from many of the rights conferred by citizenship on African Americans, Native Americans, and others.
While there is a lot of debate in the US about immigration, I have not heard much discussion of the important constitutional reasons why the US, given its particular history, grants citizenship in the way that it does. I have been thinking about all of this in connection to the hateful immigration law in Arizona. The expansion of citizenship in the 14th amendment gave the 13th (abolition) meaning and the 15th (franchise) a foundation. I have not heard the Tea Party arguing for the repeal of the 14th amendment yet, but I think people need to recognize that this history of expanding opportunities for citizenship is worthy of celebration, and look for more opportunities to enfranchise all people who reside in the US.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Bank queues (and democracy)
As of today, there is no special line for faculty at the bank branch on campus. At banks in Cairo, you take a number (like a deli counter) rather than having to wait in line. You arrive and tell them if you have a deposit/withdrawal or need to open/close an account or do some other category of business people do at banks. Up until yesterday, at the university branch, you had the additional option to go up and tell them you were faculty and end up in a separate, and presumably quicker, queue.
Last week in the faculty queue, I got stuck behind some complicated transactions and ended up waiting longer than if I would have if I were in the regular line. Getting to see folks arrive after me and leave before I was served probably serves me right. But 80% or 90% of the time the faculty line was quicker.
Nearly every time I went in the bank, I would take a “faculty” ticket even though I like to think of myself as a democratic person. On one particular occasion (when I was extremely rushed, or at least I claimed as much in an act of rationalization), I remember being embarrassed when I waited less than a minute to see a teller in a bank full of university staff members who clearly had been waiting for quite a while. It wasn’t right, but I did it anyway. Not that it counts for much, but I felt terrible, as it was happening and all day afterwards. Not that I want to make it, in and of itself, into a big deal...
I am glad that they have changed this unfair policy, even though I took advantage of it. I don’t mind waiting a bit longer at the bank. Plus I no longer have the option of doing something I don’t believe in. And I also don’t have to wonder why I knowingly did it.
Last week in the faculty queue, I got stuck behind some complicated transactions and ended up waiting longer than if I would have if I were in the regular line. Getting to see folks arrive after me and leave before I was served probably serves me right. But 80% or 90% of the time the faculty line was quicker.
Nearly every time I went in the bank, I would take a “faculty” ticket even though I like to think of myself as a democratic person. On one particular occasion (when I was extremely rushed, or at least I claimed as much in an act of rationalization), I remember being embarrassed when I waited less than a minute to see a teller in a bank full of university staff members who clearly had been waiting for quite a while. It wasn’t right, but I did it anyway. Not that it counts for much, but I felt terrible, as it was happening and all day afterwards. Not that I want to make it, in and of itself, into a big deal...
I am glad that they have changed this unfair policy, even though I took advantage of it. I don’t mind waiting a bit longer at the bank. Plus I no longer have the option of doing something I don’t believe in. And I also don’t have to wonder why I knowingly did it.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Moving up
Last weekend, we move apartments. Up two floors in the same building to the flat formerly inhabited by some dear friends who moved to Doha. Similar floor plan but nicer things—detailing, appliances (clothes dryer and dishwasher), furniture. A lot more natural light. Less street noise. Nice breeze. Cleaner air (maybe. relatively).
I am more inclined to take the elevator to the fourth floor than the second (actually fifth and third for American counters), which I dislike. But it has been a great decision even if I am not yet unpacked.
When we first moved to Cairo (and this building), I posted about my favorite room in the house—the large front balcony. Ditto for this place.
Check out the furniture:
the view:
and the company:
I am more inclined to take the elevator to the fourth floor than the second (actually fifth and third for American counters), which I dislike. But it has been a great decision even if I am not yet unpacked.
When we first moved to Cairo (and this building), I posted about my favorite room in the house—the large front balcony. Ditto for this place.
Check out the furniture:
the view:
and the company:
Friday, May 28, 2010
Grades and email
I submitted grades for one of my classes yesterday. Within less than five minutes (literally—the submission screen was still open on my computer), I received an email from a student complaining about their grade. This is annoying, but commonplace, and not really the subject of this blog entry.
This student’s note led me to think about how email has transformed the way that people communicate. First of all, the email was incredibly informal. It was extremely brief, written in all lower case letters, without punctuation, full of typographical errors, and without any of the courtesies that typically find their way into professional correspondence. It is hard to expect much if it was written in a couple of minutes. Certain etiquette in circumstances like this would be beneficial for students, because they would be presenting their case (to the extent that they have one) much more clearly.
What if there was no email (as when I was an undergraduate student) or if its use was limited (as when I started teaching). The student would have had to contact me either by telephone, in person, or in writing. The first two are possible but involve a level of direct confrontation that most people, especially those who, like me, rely heavily on email, find uncomfortable. I went to a residential college but I don’t recall extensive telephone conversations with my instructors beyond, perhaps, scheduling appointments. In a face-to-face, people generally need to come correct, though they don’t always do so. And a written note requires thought even if it were the written equivalent of the email I received (a note hand-written in green ink on a piece of ripped scrap paper, folded and slid under an office door).
What all of these possibilities share is a required forethought. It would take the communiqué longer to reach me. Even the time to walk to a professor’s office with a complaint takes longer than to send off an email. If the telephone caller gets through, I guess a call can be similarly impulsive, but it immediately becomes interactive. In writing a letter, there is forethought required. There is the time it takes to deliver it. What if this student waited a day or two or a week to reflect, or was somehow required to contact me through another channel. I don’t know if it would have an impact. Email has changed the way that teachers and students and other people communicate—even when they are not communicating via email. I have thought about requiring students to come see me to talk about things like this, in order to see if that would change the quality of our interaction, but I fear that it would open the door to more complaints and, frankly, I rely on email as much as they do (and for many of the same reasons).
This student’s note led me to think about how email has transformed the way that people communicate. First of all, the email was incredibly informal. It was extremely brief, written in all lower case letters, without punctuation, full of typographical errors, and without any of the courtesies that typically find their way into professional correspondence. It is hard to expect much if it was written in a couple of minutes. Certain etiquette in circumstances like this would be beneficial for students, because they would be presenting their case (to the extent that they have one) much more clearly.
What if there was no email (as when I was an undergraduate student) or if its use was limited (as when I started teaching). The student would have had to contact me either by telephone, in person, or in writing. The first two are possible but involve a level of direct confrontation that most people, especially those who, like me, rely heavily on email, find uncomfortable. I went to a residential college but I don’t recall extensive telephone conversations with my instructors beyond, perhaps, scheduling appointments. In a face-to-face, people generally need to come correct, though they don’t always do so. And a written note requires thought even if it were the written equivalent of the email I received (a note hand-written in green ink on a piece of ripped scrap paper, folded and slid under an office door).
What all of these possibilities share is a required forethought. It would take the communiqué longer to reach me. Even the time to walk to a professor’s office with a complaint takes longer than to send off an email. If the telephone caller gets through, I guess a call can be similarly impulsive, but it immediately becomes interactive. In writing a letter, there is forethought required. There is the time it takes to deliver it. What if this student waited a day or two or a week to reflect, or was somehow required to contact me through another channel. I don’t know if it would have an impact. Email has changed the way that teachers and students and other people communicate—even when they are not communicating via email. I have thought about requiring students to come see me to talk about things like this, in order to see if that would change the quality of our interaction, but I fear that it would open the door to more complaints and, frankly, I rely on email as much as they do (and for many of the same reasons).
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